


You On My Mind

by lastkid



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9844064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastkid/pseuds/lastkid
Summary: Love.  It has absolutely wrecked her reputation, and in the best possible way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Or... Franky, Bridget, a dinner reservation, a dress, and a ton of flirting. Takes place after 4.09. Title from "Casey's Song" by City of Colour.

She's looking over tomatoes at the farmer's market on her lunch break when she hears her name.

Ian. The sous chef she worked under at her first job as a line cook, back before the tv show, before prison, before everything.  Now the head chef and owner at one of the best restaurants in Melbourne, according to the profile she'd just read in the Sunday paper.  He had been one of her best mates then, and a mentor when she was just a wiry teenager with enough cooking talent and charisma to get people past her attitude and quick temper, but the friendship had fallen by the wayside when she'd blown up her life.  He had tried to reach out, but she never responded, and the letters stopped coming shortly after her sentencing.

They each shuffle bags of produce around, freeing their hands to shake. At one time, they might have hugged, but that time is long gone.  "Heard you were out.  You look great.  Still cooking?"

"Professionally? After what happened?"  Franky scoffs and shakes her head.   "Nah.  Strictly a home cook these days.  I got into law when I was inside.  I'm a paralegal at Legal Relief now."

"You always were good at arguing."

"This bit's mostly paperwork, really. But the hours are good and the work is—" Fulfilling.  Exciting.  Complicated.  Much more fun than she'd imagined.  "—exactly what I want now."

They talk for a bit about Ian's new restaurant, and he rolls up his sleeve to show her the knife tattoo he's gotten in its honor. "What about you, any new ink?"

"Of course." Franky shrugs off her light jacket to show Ian the broken clock and phoenix.

"Nice." Ian's eyes travel down the tattoo, over the mess of bracelets and stop on her hand.  "Is that a ring?  You with someone?"

Franky can't help but smile. "Yeah."

It surprises her, still, how transparent she is about Bridget. Franky has spent her entire life living behind the shield of her bravado and her charm, and with a few rare exceptions, it's worked.  No one inside had really understood that she wasn't just being her usual cocky self when she bragged about her relationship with Erica, and she'd buried her anger and sadness about that departure into being top dog.

But even though she had been more alone when she met Bridget than at any point in her time at Wentworth, it seemed like everyone knew about it. Liz had never said it outright, but she'd known something was up.  Kim had her pegged in a minute and made sure the rest of the girls knew.  Bea knew they were still together when she'd visited last month.

(Of course, it's hard to keep something like that secret when you have a public through-the-fences farewell in front of the entire cellblock the day after the rumor goes through the prison like wildfire. And she hadn't helped herself sulking around like a broken-hearted teenager afterwards.)

"Must be serious, if you got a ring on. What's her name? Where'd you meet her?"

"Bridget. Ran into her in a parking lot shortly after I got out."  The half-lie rolls off her tongue easily.

"Sel's gonna flip when she hears." Ian's girlfriend, for as long as Franky had known him.  "She always thought you'd be best when you fell for someone."

"Selena is still putting up with you?"

"Yes, by some strange stroke of luck, I managed to convince her to marry me. And it looks like you've done the same."

"It's not legal yet, but..." Franky quirks a smile, thinking back on the day she'd moved the ring from her right to left hand.  "She deserved to know where I stood."

"She's a good one. I can tell.  You seem really happy.  Settled.  Not like when you were fucking your way through Melbourne."  He laughs at the face she pulls.  "Franky Doyle, all tied down."

Love. It has absolutely wrecked her reputation, and in the best possible way.  "It's not all down to Bridget; I did manage to grow up a bit on my own."

"Come to dinner tonight. Sel would love to see you and I've got to meet this woman who's changed your life.  Eight-thirty work? On the house," he adds quickly, reading the hesitation on her face correctly.

Mostly.

Franky has wanted to give Bridget a night out like this for ages. Make it special. Go somewhere fancy, somewhere she can barely afford, get dressed up, make eyes at each other over dinner, flirt, share dessert, pay the bill in a rush so they can get home to bed.  Bridget can more than afford it, but she can't, not yet.  Part of her is grateful that Ian is giving her the opportunity to have the night she wants, but that stubborn independent streak in her is upset she isn't doing this on her own.

She tamps down her discomfort; it's stupid of her and she knows it, after the hell of a lot of work she's done on accepting help from others. It's just dinner, for fuck's sake.  So she smiles, nods, says, "Thanks.  Tonight sounds good."

 

 

Franky calls Bridget from her car, assuming she won't reach her. There are only a few minutes at the end of each hour that she's available, and she isn't supposed to answer her cell while she's at Wentworth anyway.  She's expecting the smooth, professional Bridget Westfall voicemail message and is surprised when she hears an amiable "Hello" instead.

"Hey, didn't expect you to pick up."

"Our staff meeting ran short; my next session isn't for twenty minutes. What's going on?"

"What would you say if I told you I scored reservations at Craig's tonight at eight-thirty?"

Bridget hums in consideration. "I'd… Ask you how your reunion with your chef friend went."

Fuck, she's good. Franky gasps in mock surprise.  "You don't think I could use my resourcefulness and cunning to get us a table?"

"I think your resourcefulness and cunning were probably of more use bringing in contraband than anything as…mainstream…as a dinner reservation at a restaurant that's been booked out for the next six months."

Franky chortles. "I should remind you those charges were never proven, Gidge."

"True, but you know what they say about an accumulation of evidence…"

"Ooh, I love it when you get all legal on me. So hot."  Bridget's laugh in her ear fills her heart, makes her feel light and free and loved.  She can't wait to see her.  "Hey, is my blue shirt still at the house?"

"I think so.  Why?"

"I'll need something to wear to work tomorrow."

"Oh, so you think a dinner date—one I haven't agreed to—is an invitation into my bed, do you? I'm not that easy." 

How she loves that they play like this. "The kitchen table begs to differ."

Bridget inhales sharply.  "You are incorrigible."

"Don't pretend it doesn't turn you on."

Bridget scoffs, and Franky can picture the amused _Franky's-being-outrageous-again_ head-shake that goes with it.  "I have to run, baby.  I'll see you at eight."

 

 

 

Dressed in a crisp white button-down, a blazer and black slacks, she pulls up to the house shortly before eight. She isn't one for tradition, but she likes the ritual of all of this: dressing up, putting on makeup, driving over, walking to Bridget's door, knocking and waiting when she could just as easily use her key, heart thumping with the little twinge of nervousness and the big rush of excitement.

It reminds her of those first days with Bridget in prison. The daily faux-accidental run-ins, unsubtle flirting, and constant deflection during sessions.  How seeing Bridget's smile could change her day; how it thrilled her to see Bridget unable to hide her amusement even as she attempted to brush off the flirting; how good it felt to fall into their easy, smooth, effortless banter; how much it meant that someone was seeing the good in her that she was just starting to recognize herself. 

(And, all of a sudden, it mattered if she spilled tea on herself during breakfast.)

All of the things she'd found herself doing that had scared the shit out of her, because she knew something was changing in her, and something was growing between them, but it was Wentworth and there was no way it was going to end well. She'd resisted the feeling as long as she could—weeks of brain-insolence and heart-demands to the contrary—not able to let herself believe what her heart knew: she had gotten herself—and Bridget—into something insane and irrational and deeply emotional.

(Franky thinks it's something of a miracle that everything has worked out as well as it has.)

And now, making up courting rituals when she has already won her girl, when they have a shorthand and a history and months of living together, now her fear isn't falling in love but losing it.

Bridget cracks the door open, still in a robe, skin dewy from a shower, eyes bright with affection at seeing Franky standing on her porch. "Hey, you."

"Heya."

"I'm so sorry, baby, but I'm running late. Do you mind waiting?"  Franky shakes her head, steps forward to come inside…and gets the door shut in her face.

She leans back against a post to wait. This isn't quite what she had in mind, but it's a beautiful night, pleasantly warm and the sun just setting.  She can always use some practice at being patient.  She's willing to bet Bridget left the door unlocked.  And god only knows she wouldn't be able to keep out of the way while Bridget got ready, if she'd been allowed in the house.

Hard as it is to keep her hands off her girl, there's no way she could sit on the couch playing with her phone or fiddling with the knick-knacks. Not tonight.  Not when she's spent all afternoon thinking of Bridget down the hall putting on date night clothes. 

After all, Franky has made them both late plenty of mornings, just watching Bridget get ready for work. A part of her imprinted on those lavish little jackets and collared shirts, the tailored pants and tight skirts, and she loves the freedom to play out some of those dirty thoughts she'd had during sessions.

And even though she spends a good bit of her porch exile imagining it, Franky is not at all prepared for what she sees when Bridget finally opens the door again. "Jesus fuck."

Bridget has her hair up, twisted and pinned in the back, loose strands framing her face. A necklace Franky gave her hangs around her neck.  Her heels are slightly lower than normal; a token concession to Franky's preference to walk down the street with an arm slung over her shoulders, keeping her close.  She's gorgeous, as usual.

But it's the dress that stops her, forces the expletive from her mouth.

The dress is a simple silk sundress, not flashy or fancy, but it could not suit Bridget any better. Cream-colored with watercolor cobalt flowers that highlight Bridget's eyes and complement the twilight sky.  It's sleeveless, revealing the healthy spattering of freckles on her shoulders and upper arms, and clings to Bridget's curves before falling to an asymmetrical floating skirt just below her knees.  Franky's eyes are drawn immediately to the twisted accent at the base of the v-neck, showing just enough cleavage to be tantalizing but still stay within Bridget's usual classy style. 

She can't wait to get her hands on it. Under it. 

Bridget laughs at her wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare. "You like?"

(And in that laugh there is Bridget looking for a dress that will get this reaction out of her, there is Bridget picking it out and trying it on and knowing it was going to make Franky's knees weak, there is Bridget putting her hair up and fastening her necklace around her neck and thinking of what she'll be doing to the woman standing on her porch. Finding pleasure in imagining Franky's.

She knows, all too well, what Bridget was thinking; everything she is wearing was designed with Bridget in mind.)

Franky tosses her head. "Nah.  Think you oughta take it off."  She grins, laughs at herself, and lets her gaze wander slowly, appreciatively over Bridget's body.  "Where the fuck have you been hiding that, Gidge?"

"Special occasion needs a special outfit. I got it a couple of weeks ago.  You're not the only one who's been planning something."

"Really?" Franky beams, delighted.  "Care to spill?"

"You'll see. Be patient."  Bridget reaches out and tugs on Franky's lapel.  "You look sharp, honey.  This is new, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It's a nice place.  Hot date.  Wanted to make an effort."  She waggles her eyebrows.  "Can't be that tattooed punk forever."

"You know I love your tattoos. But you're right; there's a time and place for them."  Bridget adjusts her purse.  "Ready to go?"

"I don't know," Franky drawls. At Bridget's questioning look, Franky tilts her head towards that fucking incredible dress.  "I'm torn.  I should take you out and make everyone jealous of me, but fuck if I don't want to push you up against the wall right now and make you scream."  She cocks an eyebrow, smirks.  Rakish.  Her old self, in one gesture, putting on the brash sensuality Bridget has never been able to resist.

She's not too proud to admit she wants to get under Bridget's skin the way that dress has gotten under hers. For a minute, as the flush recedes from Bridget's cheeks and she lets go of the breath she's holding, Franky's sure she's accomplished her goal. 

And then…

Bridget steps on to the porch into her, forcing her to take a half-step back, and leans in close, lips to her ear, Franky's steadying hand on her hip hot through the silk. "As good as that sounds, baby, I've always thought anticipation makes the inevitable that much sweeter, don't you?" 

Fuck. Her world narrows to the sound of Bridget's voice, the barest brush of soft lips against her ear,  the delicate perfume scenting the air, the feel of silk gliding under her fingers, the press of Bridget's body against hers, the light graze of nails on the back of her neck.  All too reminiscent of other, more intimate moments.  Goosebumps break out over her skin, her heart thumps, her knees go weak. 

It's all she can do to nod.

"Besides," Bridget continues, her voice lowering impossibly further, sending shivers down Franky's spine, "I'm starving."

She laughs, presses a fast kiss to Franky's cheek, and pulls away. She's halfway to the car before Franky can open her eyes.

"Fuck me," Franky groans, head tilted to the heavens. Played.  Played by the woman who can't get through a roleplay without cracking herself up.  She chuckles in disbelief.  No one would ever believe that she's this fucking wrapped by a girl. 

"You coming, baby, or am I taking myself out?" Bridget calls.

"Yeah," Franky says, turning around to take a long look at the woman who has her heart. "Yeah, I'm coming."


End file.
